


The Risk of Winter

by jouissant



Category: Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: Academy Era, First Time, M/M, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-02
Updated: 2014-01-02
Packaged: 2018-01-07 04:59:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 19,656
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1115795
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jouissant/pseuds/jouissant
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Cadet Spock meets Chris Pike his first September at Starfleet Academy, he has no idea what he's in for.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Risk of Winter

**Author's Note:**

  * For [heeroluva](https://archiveofourown.org/users/heeroluva/gifts).



> Written for Happy Trekmas 2013.

2250

Spock shouldered his pack as the shuttle docked and its passengers prepared to disembark. While waiting for the aisle to clear, he retrieved his PADD, located the address of San Francisco’s Vulcan embassy, and instantly committed it to memory.

He recalled his final conversation with his father, as they sat in the boarding area at the Shi’Khar shuttleport. Spock’s mother had elected to remain at their home. “I’ll cry,” she said. “I just know it. And I don’t want your last sight of me for who knows how long to be me blubbering while your father pretends not to know who I am.” She had elbowed Sarek gently at this, as if to reassure him that she was not being entirely serious. 

“I recommend you spend the initial adjustment period in the company of fellow Vulcans,” Sarek said. “They will assist you with settling in the city prior to the start of the academic term.” 

“Yes, Father,” Spock said. Outside the window, heat shimmered between the shuttleport and the red mountains beyond. The temperature that afternoon was forecast to peak at a comfortable 120 degrees Fahrenheit; the average high in San Francisco in August was only 70. Spock shivered preemptively at the thought. 

Across from him, Sarek’s eyes narrowed. “Are you well?” 

“Yes, Father.” 

When the attendant announced the initiation of the boarding process, Spock and Sarek stood. Sarek’s arm twitched upwards, and Spock thought for a moment that he meant to make physical contact. When he did raise his arm, however, it was only to form the _ta’al._ “Live long and prosper, Spock,” he said. He paused. “I cannot pretend to understand your decision to decline the invitation proffered by the Science Academy, nor can I condone your attendance at Starfleet.” 

Spock found himself wishing fervently to drop his gaze, to look anywhere but at Sarek. But he forced himself to straighten, fixing his eyes on his father’s. 

“However,” Sarek continued, “As my son, your success or failure reflects upon me and upon our house. It is thus logical that I should wish you well in your endeavours.” 

“I will do my utmost to further the name of the House of Sarek,” Spock said. He saw movement in his peripheral vision; passengers had begun to board the shuttle. “I must go,” he said. He raised his own hand in the traditional address. 

“Peace and long life,” he said. “I trust you will give my best to Mother.” 

He turned and walked away. If Sarek stood at the terminal and watched until the shuttle departed, Spock did not know it. 

Now, in San Francisco, Spock stepped off of the shuttle and immediately collided with a young human woman who pelted along the platform at full tilt, glancing behind her as she went. Spock reflexively raised his hand and caught her about the upper arm, and as he did so he was hit with a barrage of thought so loud and clear that at first he believed her to be speaking. 

_\--late Mom’s gonna kill me did you see the girl in that holo her hair was so red I should--_

Spock dropped his hand. The woman leapt backwards as if burned and her mouth fell open in an O of shock. 

“I’m sorry!” she cried, her hand flying to her mouth. 

Before Spock could respond, she disappeared into the crowd. Spock shook his head slightly and drew his shields more tightly around him. He had little experience living among non-telepaths; his mother had always been exceptionally careful to adhere to Vulcan cultural norms regarding casual contact, but Spock wouldn’t be so indulged here on Earth. He would have to adjust his controls accordingly. When the next human on the platform jostled too close, he jerked his shoulder away to avoid contact. Perhaps this carried a negative implication, because the older woman appeared affronted, scoffing at him and hurrying away. Spock sighed minutely. In the rush of late afternoon traffic, no one would hear it. If they did, they would not care. 

Spock left the shuttleport behind him and hailed a taxi. When the driver pulled up before the Vulcan embassy, Spock peered out the window at the building and attempted to quell the pang of trepidation triggered by the sight of it. The building was fabricated from red stone, clearly inspired by Vulcan herself. Curious, Spock thought, that Vulcans should deliberately seek to emulate their planet despite the fact that the embassy was located on another world entirely. In another species, he might have thought it an appeal to comfort. Perhaps it served some architectural purpose he was unaware of. 

The Vulcan who responded to the door chime was shorter than Spock, though he still managed an imposing aura. “S’chn T’gai Spock,” he said, offering the _ta’al_. “I am Sulek. Your father apprised me of your impending arrival. Please, come inside.” 

He gestured through the open doorway. Spock picked up his bag and followed Sulek into an expansive foyer, decorated in the traditional style. Several other Vulcans populated the room, seeming somehow out of place. Perhaps they were travelers, on Earth for reasons of business or leisure. They would return to Vulcan in time, but Spock would not. His opinion on this matter was as yet unformed. They looked up at him in turn as he entered the room, their gazes assessing. Spock straightened reflexively. 

“In addition to our diplomatic function here in San Francisco, we operate as something of a cultural hub,” Sulek said. “We encourage you to spend time at the Embassy, if you wish it. Adjusting to Earth’s majority-human population can be somewhat trying.” 

“I do not anticipate difficulties,” Spock said. 

“Regardless,” Sulek said, his tone indicating he thought Spock optimistic at best. He indicated a set of glass-walled lifts forming the centerpiece of the foyer. They were tinted red as the rest of the building, and they caught the sun streaming in through a central skylight set into the roof high above them. The building was arranged in a circle around the lift shaft, opting to expand upward rather than outward. The construction technique mirrored Vulcan architecture, and Spock felt something inside him soften at the sight. The sensation was disturbing. 

“Your lodgings are located on the fourth floor. You may reside here until the beginning of the academic year; our staff will assist you in securing a permanent residence prior to that time,” Sulek said. 

Spock had long since submitted his application for residence in the Academy dormitories. He had not disclosed this decision to his parents, and he saw no reason to behave differently with Sulek now. He simply nodded, hoping his noncommittal response to the offer of help might be taken for travel-weariness. 

“You will no doubt wish to refresh yourself following your journey,” Sulek said. “I will leave you. The evening meal is served communally in the dining room on the mezzanine at 7:00.” 

Communally, thought Spock. Fascinating. 

“My thanks,” he said, inclining his head politely. Sulek nodded, and turned away, his reddish robes seeming to melt into the walls as he retreated down a corridor. Spock entered the lift. “Four,” he said. He watched the play of light on glass as the first three floors slid past. 

His quarters were small but adequate, with a communal fresher located two doors down. He sat on the bed, feeling somewhat deflated. Soft noises emanated from the adjacent rooms: the scrape of a chair on the floor, the rustle of fabric, faint strains of music. Paradoxically, these indicators of other residents only served to make Spock feel more alone. He took off his boots and sat cross-legged. He had ninety-two minutes to spare before dinner. He elected to pass the time in meditation; its centering effect would be beneficial after the day’s travel. Spock closed his eyes and attempted to clear his mind, but he found his efforts thwarted by intruding thoughts. Eventually, he surrendered to them, and found that 7:00 came quickly after all, as do most events one is not particularly looking forward to. 

The table in the dining room sat fifteen, but only half a dozen of its seats were occupied. All six implacable faces looked up from their plates to regard Spock as he walked in. He supposed they all knew precisely who he was and why he was there. He nodded at them and selected a chair at the far right side of the table, feeling their eyes on him as he sat.

The meal was simple but nutritionally satisfying, a vegetable stew with bread, and as he broke his warm roll in two and spread it with butter Spock experienced the first pleasurable sensation he could remember feeling in days. He swallowed, setting the roll down on his plate and placing his hands in his lap for a full minute before he could determine with certainty that none of his fellow diners were aware of it. When he picked up the bread again and bit into it, the butter had cooled. As the food’s nutritional breakdown had not changed as a result of the decrease in temperature, disappointment would be decidedly illogical. 

“Good evening, Spock,” said an older woman seated to his left. “I am T’Vala, of the house of Valek. I understand you have traveled here to attend Starfleet Academy.” 

“That is correct,” Spock replied. He set his fork down and clasped his hands in his lap again. 

The woman indicated a younger woman sitting beside her, who appeared approximately Spock’s age. “My daughter, T’Vass, has also accepted a place at the Academy. As fellow Vulcans, it would be advantageous to make one another’s acquaintance.” 

“Greetings, T’Vass,” Spock said. The girl was thin, with a long face and wide set eyes. Those eyes--there was something familiar about them. 

T’Vass did not return his greeting. Rather, she leaned closer over the surface of the table in what appeared to be enthusiasm. It was most unbecoming. “I do not understand,” she said, eyes narrowing. 

An sense of unease sat in Spock’s belly. “Clarify.” 

“My cousin T’Shara attended the Shi’Kahr Academy. She stated that your test scores were the highest in your cohort.” 

“That is correct,” Spock said. 

“Your failure to achieve a passing score on the VSA entrance exam thus seems statistically unlikely.” 

“Indeed,” Spock said. He should speak with more accuracy, but he found himself without significant motivation to elucidate his personal circumstances for a stranger’s benefit.

T’Vass appeared confused, a wrinkle materializing between her brows. “But--”

“T’Vass,” said T’Vala, a hint of warning in her tone. 

“I received an offer of admission to the Science Academy,” Spock said. His self control was woefully lacking, but something in T’Vass’ voice had cut straight to the core of him. And it had, after all, been a long day. 

“Yet you chose to attend Starfleet instead?” 

“My mother is human,” Spock said, his voice clipped. “Though you have no doubt been made aware of that fact as well.” He pushed his chair back from the table, standing in one fluid motion. He folded his napkin and set it beside his plate. “If you will excuse me,” he said. “Peace and long life to you both.” He nodded at each woman in turn. As he left the dining room behind, he heard the low burble of resuming conversation.

***

Spock had been in residence at Starfleet Academy for 16 hours, 37 minutes, and 19...20...21 seconds. If he had to qualify them, he would be forced to admit they had not gone quite as smoothly as he had imagined.

As he waited in the serpentine queue in front of the unassumingly named Student Housing Office, he’d allowed himself a modicum of cautious optimism. If he relaxed his shields just slightly in the crush of new cadets, he could feel free-flowing excitement crackle as if along a live wire. It was infectious, even for a Vulcan. Spock stood in line between a pair of gregarious Tellarites who were not overly careful of physical contact. Despite this, he characterized his overall outlook as positive. When Spock reached the front of the line and stepped over the office threshold into the domain of a harried administrative assistant, he did so with what humans might have called a spring in his step. Now, seated on a dingy Academy-issue couch in what was deemed a “common room,” Spock’s spring had almost certainly sprung. 

“Dude,” said Spock’s roommate. “It’s our first night at ‘Fleet Academy. We are _going out_.” 

Spock’s roommate was half-Andorian, raised on Earth in a place called Honolulu. Spock recalled a particular holo his mother kept on her dresser, one which his father patently refused to discuss. Both his parents wore garlands of flowers and sunglasses, and Sarek slouched shockingly against his mother, clutching a goblet of something frozen and likely containing cocoa. “It was our honeymoon,” Amanda said, as if this explained anything. 

Thiri did not wear flowers, but he seemed enamored of all manner of intoxicants. “There’s this bar,” he said. “My brother says they don’t card. Wait, how old are you?” 

“Twenty.” Spock attained the Vulcan age of majority two Standard years ago, but in this moment he found he felt very young indeed. 

“And I bet you’ve got your visas all squared away and everything,” Thiri grumbled. “Lucky. I tried to get my parents to register me as an offworlder, but they didn’t go for it.” 

Thiri’s speech was so peppered with Terran colloquialisms that Spock could only parse an estimated 58.4%. “What relevance does your citizenship have?” 

Thiri rolled his eyes. “If I were registered as an Andorian citizen, I’d have Andorian ID, wouldn’t I? And the drinking age on Andor is eighteen.” 

“I do not believe Vulcan has a ‘drinking age.’ As we reap none of alcohol’s dubious benefits and most of its ill effects, such legislation was likely deemed unnecessary.” 

“Yeah, I’d say you could just buy me drinks, but that might look a little odd,” Thiri said. “Oh, well. Like I said, this place doesn’t card.” 

“I have not yet agreed to accompany you. And would it not be imprudent to violate Terran law prior to attending even one class?” 

Thiri rolled his eyes again. “You’re going to be a riot, aren’t you?” 

“Pardon?” 

“Nothing. Of course you’re coming; it’s our first night here. And it’ll be fine. This bar’s a total dive. I seriously doubt any of the brass would hang out there.”

***

When they arrived at the bar, Spock immediately doubted the wisdom of his decision to come along. In truth, his doubts had begun the moment Thiri suggested the outing. They mounted when he commed an additional two friends, both of whom were human and in possession of the identification required to purchase alcohol. Spock chose not to question the means by which they had obtained the IDs, as they were also first-year cadets and did not appear noticeably older than Thiri. Spock came to understand that the term “dive” connoted an establishment of questionable sanitation and equally questionable clientele. This particular bar met and exceeded this definition.

Spock tightened his mental shields as he stepped into the press of people, the majority of whom were exceedingly drunk. They were young, too, and Spock recognized several of them from the orientation exercises he had attended earlier that day. They staggered toward Spock’s erstwhile party, lurching close to him. In multiple instances Spock was forced to haul himself aside rather dramatically, which elicited the same response from the interloper as from the indignant woman on the shuttle platform three weeks prior. 

They sat in a corner booth, Spock forced to squeeze in next to one of Thiri’s friends, a hulking redhead by the name of Mike. He appeared to have imbibed a significant amount of alcohol before arriving at the bar, because he leaned against Spock most impolitely. Additionally, Spock had the impression he had no idea of the volume of his voice. The bar was loud, and Spock would have preferred to sit in silence rather than vainly attempt to make himself heard over the din. His companions did not agree as to the futility of speech, and when the music lapsed between songs they found themselves shouting at one another across the booth. Spock was rapidly developing a headache. The endless batter of thoughts and emotions against his shields did not help matters, and after a relatively short period of time Spock began to feel he was approaching his limit. Vulcans honed their controls from the moment they were old enough to conceptualize them, but years of practice did not altogether counter the physical strain, particularly in such a crowded environment. Spock felt tension mounting behind his eyes, and badly wanted to close them, to shut the room out. 

“You okay?” Thiri regarded him from the opposite side of the table. 

Spock did not attempt to explain. He had spent only limited time in the company of non-Vulcans, but he suspected a discussion of his attempts to diminish the impact of their very presence in the room might go amiss. 

“I wish to procure a drink,” he said by way of explanation. “If you will excuse me.” 

As he left the table, he harbored no illusions that his actions would be interpreted at face value. But then, it was not especially logical to evade the truth rather than simply state his discomfort. He had been here less than a day and already he was modifying his behavior to accommodate these emotional beings. Perhaps Sulek had been the wiser that first day at the embassy, when he had assumed Spock would live alone. 

Spock considered simply leaving. However, his headache now rendered him both nauseated and slightly dizzy. Perhaps it would be wise to purchase a drink after all. The crush of bodies surrounding the bar itself was almost the end of the affair, but then a space cleared before him as a knot of people moved aside. Spock stepped into it and leaned against the bar’s smooth wooden surface. 

The bartender caught his eye and came over. “What’ll it be?” he asked. He was a tall human male, with messy blond hair and a nascent scruff of beard. He leaned close to make himself heard, and his voice was softer than appearances indicated. Hearing it put Spock somewhat at ease for reasons he could not identify.

“Altair water, please.” 

The bartender nodded, turning away to prepare the drink. As he did so, a rich and throaty laugh off to the left caught Spock’s attention. He looked over to see a pair of humans seated at the bar. They were older, which was striking in comparison to the establishment’s overall sophomorism. One of them--a woman--had long dark hair that fell buoyantly over her shoulders, and very red lips that drew back over white teeth as she threw her head back and laughed again. Spock couldn’t avoid staring. For some reason, her blatant display of emotion was not nearly so objectionable as it should have been. The woman stopped laughing, though her lips remained quirked upwards as if with residual mirth. 

Her companion was a man approximately her age, his hair shot through with silver. He said something to her Spock could not hear, and she laughed again, running a finger over the rim of her glass before lifting it to her mouth and drinking its contents down in one gulp. As she set her glass down again, she saw Spock looking. He froze, caught out, but she simply smiled at him and turned back to the man beside her. Spock wondered idly if they were sexually involved. 

“Okay, here you go.” The return of the bartender roused Spock from his reverie. In his peripheral vision, he could see the older man looking at him now, and as he handed over his credit chip he willed down the flush that threatened to rise in his cheeks. He must be tired indeed if his controls were so deplorably weak. He required rest and meditation, although since his arrival on Earth he had found it exceedingly difficult to clear his mind.

Spock took a sip of his Altair water and set the glass down on the bar. Then, several things happened in rapid succession. 

The bartender handed Spock back his credit chip, his fingers inadvertently brushing Spock’s as he did so. In retrospect, Spock could not fault him for it; the room was relatively poorly lit, so he might easily have misjudged the distance between their hands. And of course, there was the eminently likely possibility that he was unaware of Vulcan taboos surrounding hand contact. At the time, however, the touch was the proverbial final straw. Immediately, the bartender’s uncensored thoughts crashed across the shoddily-constructed barricade of Spock’s shields. 

_He’s cute I wonder if he’d no he’s Vulcan better not but damn I’d like to try and_

Spock snatched his hand back, barely able to stifle a gasp. The baldness of these thoughts, pregnant as they were with unconcealed desire and prurient curiosity, was shocking enough without the sparks of sensation the contact sent up his arm. 

“Shit, I’m so sorry,” the bartender said. “I didn’t even think--”

But Spock was already backing away, his drink forgotten. He stepped back into an unfortunately positioned pool of water--melted ice maybe, or a spill--and was unable to catch himself before he fell flat on his back, whacking his head resoundingly on the floor. There was a moment when the world seemed to stutter and pause on its axis, and then Spock hauled himself vertical. He did not make it further than sitting before his earlier dizziness returned tenfold, and he found himself unable to get to his feet. Suddenly, a pair of boots materialized before him, trained as his eyes were on the sticky floor in a desperate bid for stability. 

“I’m going to help you up,” said a man’s voice. “But I need to touch you to do it. Is that all right?” 

Spock was uncertain whether or not it was strictly all right. But standing seemed preferable to remaining on the floor, so he nodded his assent regardless. “Yes,” he said, without looking up. The man wore faded blue trousers. Denim, Spock’s brain supplied. There was a hole in the knee. Perhaps Spock should point it out to him and suggest he have it mended. 

A pair of hands hooked him under the arms and hauled him to his feet, so that he was face to face with the older man he’d noticed earlier. The man’s dark-haired companion was nowhere to be seen. 

“You,” Spock said. 

The man smiled, appearing amused. “Me,” he said. His eyes narrowed as he peered into Spock’s face. “Are you feeling okay?” he asked. 

There was no logic in prevaricating. “No,” Spock said. 

“Let’s get you out of here. Do you have everything? Your credit chip?” 

He clutched his credit chip in his fist. “Yes.”

“Oh--I didn’t even think. Are you here with anyone? Friends? Should I--” 

Spock considered. His head throbbed as if the mere act of thinking was too much to ask of it. 

“No,” he said. “I am alone.” 

The man gave him a curious look, but appeared to accept his answer. “Okay.” 

He took hold of Spock’s shoulder and steered him toward the door. Ordinarily, Spock would have bristled at the contact, but the man kept his touch light. They exited the bar and stepped out onto the street. The air was cooler and less close, and as the man dropped his hand and backed away Spock felt a lightening sensation in the vicinity of his chest. The pain in his head lessened. 

“You okay?” 

Spock nodded. “I am...improving. I believe it is customary among your species to offer thanks for your assistance."

The man smiled at him again. “I’m going to go out on a limb and guess you’re a cadet at the Academy,” he said. 

“You are correct,” Spock said. “How did you surmise it?” 

The man snorted with laughter. “I’ve seen my share of Septembers around here,” he said. He indicated the bar behind them. “And this is my local. I should probably tip off the beverage commission about the whole underage thing, but I’d really rather the place didn’t get shut down. The drinks are cheap, and by midterms it quiets down again.” 

Spock could do nothing but stare and attempt to decipher yet another set of colloquialisms. 

“You need a ride?” The man indicated a sleek silver aircar parked beneath a streetlight. 

“Have you not been drinking? I am given to understand humans become physiologically compromised while under the influence of alcohol.” Spock also considered that this might be the sort of scenario that ended with a missing persons report and a cautionary tale with which to warn future generations of wayward Vulcan youth. But something about this man assured him, however improbably, that he was in no danger. There was also the matter of Spock’s superior strength. 

“I was just getting a quick drink with a friend,” said the man with a shrug. “ _One_ drink. So, I’m fine to drive, but I understand if you’d rather not take my word for it.” There was no sign of offense in his tone. 

Indeed, Spock would have preferred to walk home under his own power, but he found he was not entirely certain how to get there. He had been preoccupied on the trip to the bar, and had not thought to memorize the route. 

“Do you know the location of Starfleet Academy?” 

The man smiled wryly, though with his limited exposure to human facial expressions, this particular nuance was largely lost on Spock. 

“I think I can find my way.” He nodded at his vehicle. “Here we are.” He hesitated for a moment, then turned back to Spock. His eyes narrowed, as if deliberating something. “I’m not exactly in the habit of squiring mystery Vulcans around. Do you have a name?” 

“Of course I have--ah. I believe you are utilizing a figure of speech.” 

“You’re quick on the uptake, Mr…” 

“S’chn T’gai Spock, of the house of Sarek,” Spock said formally, offering the _ta’al_. 

The man returned it with practiced ease. “Can I call you Spock?” he asked. 

“That is acceptable.” 

“Great. Well, Spock, it’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance. I’m Christopher Pike. Now, let’s see about getting you back to your dorm.”

***

The following days were busy, and Spock did not have occasion to think of Christopher Pike again. The beginning of the academic term and its incipient course load meant that when Spock was not actually attending lectures, he was occupying a study carrel in the library and attempting to avoid falling behind on his assignments. This was easier said than done. Spock was used to a challenge; Vulcan education was well known for its rigor, and frankly Spock had expected a something of a reduction in difficulty. As it happened, this was far from the case.

Additionally, Spock found himself adjusting to the fact that he was no longer considered a civilian. The vicissitudes of Terran culture were one thing, but ‘Fleet culture was quite another, and the difference could not be dismissively attributed to humans’ peculiar cultural mores. Spock often found himself flustered, an eminently distressing state for a Vulcan. Cadets were expected to defer to officers in all things, which required an encyclopedic knowledge of names, faces, and uniforms. One night early in the semester, Spock found himself memorizing rank insignia at the expense of the latest chapter of his astrophysics text, which boded ill for the following day’s quiz.

As he left the classroom, having managed to score well if not strictly perfectly despite his inadequate preparation, Spock saw a pair of black-clad figures cutting through the sea of red in the corridor and was put in mind of sharks in a school of fish. As they drew closer, he immediately sought out their ranks. One was an admiral- Boyce, Spock thought it was. The other was a captain--and as it happened, Spock was certain of his name. A human cadet might have been horrified to realize that two such highly-ranking officers were currently making a beeline for him. As Spock was Vulcan, however, he merely straightened and watched them come. If his palms were slightly clammier than was typical it was surely only a consequence of the high relative humidity in the building.

“Cadet Spock,” said Admiral Boyce. “Fancy meeting you here.” 

“Sir?” Spock was somewhat taken aback that the admiral evidently knew him by sight. Although, perhaps it was not entirely unexpected; he was one of only five Vulcans in his entering class, not to mention the only one whose father had been an ambassador to Earth. 

“I wanted to introduce Captain Christopher Pike. He’s heading up a research project I thought you might have some interest in; I was planning to send you a message and organize a meeting, but...here we all are.” 

Captain Pike grinned widely at him, and Spock experienced the sudden desire to look in a mirror, to confirm that his own features displayed no hint of shock. Had he been challenged to guess Pike’s profession that night at the bar, Starfleet captain would not have rated within a parsec of his possible answers. Yet here Pike was, sleek and professional in his blacks, and giving no indication that the present circumstances were in any way a joke. 

“Cadet,” said Pike, raising his hand in the _ta’al_. “Pleased to meet you.” 

“Likewise, sir,” Spock managed. 

“Well, Chris, I guess our coffee can wait,” said Admiral Boyce. “I’ll leave you two to it.” He clapped Pike on the shoulder, and for a moment Spock was certain he was planning to do the same to him. But he simply gave a little wave. “Cadet.” 

Boyce turned and retreated into the crowd, leaving Spock to stand next to Pike against the wall of the corridor. The hall had begun to empty with the beginning of the next class period, and Spock was grateful for the thinning crowd. He was better able to focus now that he was not diverting such a significant measure of concentration to his shields.

“Shoot, I’m sorry,” Pike said, running a hand through his hair. “When Boyce gets an idea, it always has to happen right this very second. Am I keeping you from something? Do you have another class?” 

“I...I do not,” Spock said. 

“Okay, great. So I’ll just pitch it to you. As Admiral Boyce was saying, I’ve been working on a research project that might dovetail with some of your own interests--I read that paper on ion storm patterns you coauthored in the _Journal of Astrometeorology_ , which was great, by the way, although I have to admit some of it was a little over my head.” 

“Thank you, sir,” Spock said. “Although I must clarify; I chiefly served as research assistant to the first author, Silek. He honors me by assigning me equal status, however--”

“Now, Spock,” Pike said, “Don’t be modest. And don’t think I go around asking just anyone to work on my pet projects. As it happens, once I found out you’d accepted our offer of admission, I got in touch with Silek and did some poking around.” 

Spock swallowed. He was unsure why the knowledge that Pike had contacted Silek--had sought Spock out--sat so uneasily with him. It was the same discomfort engendered by the image of T’Vass in conference with her cousin in Shi’Kahr, Spock the unknowing subject of discussion.

“No need to worry. He thinks very highly of your work. He suggested I contact you, in fact. So, how about it? You interested?” 

Spock blinked, attempting to reconcile the events of the last several minutes with the incident at the bar. He had managed to avoid dwelling on his shamefully dramatic reaction to the bartender’s touch, on the somewhat awkward, largely silent car ride back to his dormitory. Now, however, he stood before this man again, this human who had interceded on Spock’s behalf. Pike had witnessed a greater show of vulnerability than had nearly anyone in Spock’s life, save perhaps his mother. And here he was, not only revealed as Spock’s superior many times over, but apparently interested in pursuing some manner of professional collaboration. 

“Why did you not reveal your true identity?” The words were out before Spock could fully grasp that he was speaking them aloud. He gaped at his own audacity, snapping his mouth shut with a click of teeth, far too late.

Vulcans certainly did not feel relief, but if Pike simply smiled at him instead of upbraiding, surely it followed that Spock’s heart and respiratory rates should slow. 

“My ‘true identity’? I’m not a superhero, Spock, just a starship captain. I was an off-duty starship captain, at the time. Besides, you...I thought you might appreciate a little anonymity, under the circumstances.” 

“You...knew who I was? Before I disclosed my name?” 

Pike sighed. “There aren’t that many Vulcan first-years. It was an educated guess. I apologize if I...miscalculated, by not saying anything. Obviously, I’d have preferred to get off on a better foot than that.” 

Spock thought for a moment. “On the contary. I appreciate your discretion.” He was unsure of what his reaction would have been, had Pike revealed himself to be a Starfleet officer, but in retrospect he decided it was for the better that he had not been forced to find out. 

“Good,” Pike said. “Good.” He looked at his chrono. “Look, it’s almost noon. There’s a great little Vulcan place five minutes’ walk from here. Let me pick your brain over plomeek soup and see if I can’t lure you into working with me.” 

Perhaps 90% of Spock wished to refuse, to procure a simple meal from the cafeteria and return to his preferred library carrel and attempt to refocus on academics. He opened his mouth to say so only to find it traitorously failing to decline Pike’s invitation. 

“That would be acceptable,” Spock said. Much later, he would recall this statement in light of a particularly apt Terran saying: famous last words.

***

Spock had had his doubts about the authenticity of Terran-prepared Vulcan cuisine. Although certain of the spices he tasted in his soup were clearly approximations of those native to his home planet, Spock found the dish not only tolerable but satisfying to consume. Across the table, Pike’s eyes watered as he swallowed a particularly piquant mouthful.

Spock had thought it impolitic to point out that a dish featuring Shi’Kahr peppers would naturally be hotter in the fall. Pike seemed better apprised of Vulcan culture than the average human; perhaps he would know this and find Spock’s warning condescending. Evidently, Spock had been mistaken. He turned away, allowing Pike to suffer in relative privacy. He understood that humans disliked being observed in situations they might deem personally embarrassing. 

“So,” Pike said, clearing his throat, “As I was saying before I burned half the tastebuds off my tongue, I’m particularly interested in how these weather patterns could affect our ships in deep space. It’s an extension of my dissertation, actually, but I won’t bore you with all that now. My point is, I’m mostly looking at things from a tactical angle, but it’d be great to have someone to go over the scientific literature with a fine-tooth comb. Uh, not literally, of course.” 

“Of course,” Spock said, perhaps a shade too quickly. Then, “I accept.” 

“You what?” 

“I accept your offer. I will assist you in your research.” 

Pike appeared surprised. “Oh. Well, that was...easier than I thought it would be. Somehow I thought you’d be a harder sell.” 

“If you indeed consulted Silek and believe me qualified to participate, I see no reason why I should refuse you. You are correct in your assumption that I have a personal interest in ion storm phenomena. Additionally, I wish to pursue the science track while at the Academy and one day accept a science officer position, preferably aboard a starship. Working with a superior officer so early in my career in Starfleet will likely prove beneficial to this end.” 

Pike narrowed his eyes, but he smiled simultaneously. “Logical,” he said. “You’re right, it’s a smart move, careerwise. Of course, it’ll be better if we actually come up with something beneficial in the end.” 

“Is knowledge not benefit enough?” 

“You’d think,” Pike said, rolling his eyes. “But ‘Fleet’s a fan of the bottom line. That’s off the record, obviously.” 

“Obviously,” Spock echoed again. 

And that was how it started.

***

At first, they met once a week in Pike’s office. Sometimes they talked, discussing facts and figures, talking over the data and its implications. More often, they worked silently. Initially, Spock found it disconcerting. In his past experience with humans, including his mother, he had come to expect a kind of mantle of ambient noise. Most humans disliked silence to a nearly pathological degree, particularly in one another’s company. On more than one occasion, Spock had been driven from the ostensibly silent library by the incessant tap of a stylus, or a shoe against the leg of a table. His superior hearing made this tiny cacophony all the more invasive, and it became just another mental intrusion to shield against, hampering his productivity considerably.

One of the first things Spock noticed about Pike, however, was his ability to maintain a comfortable silence. There were moments, sitting in his office in the early days of their association, when Spock would become aware of a settled stillness that hung around them in the air. He would realize that the headache that took up seemingly permanent residence behind his eyes had eased, that he had released the iron grip of his shields without even noticing he was doing it. He thought to ask Pike if he had any training in such matters, but the question seemed overly personal in nature, so he refrained. 

One day, Spock left his dormitory as was his habit following the end of the school day, intending to go to the library. Thiri had proved a better-than-anticipated roommate, which essentially meant that he and Spock stayed out of one another’s way, particularly where academics were concerned. Thiri’s idea of reviewing material for an exam involved a room packed full of people and the procurement of various foodstuffs he deemed “study fuel,” which was perplexing, as none of them contained appropriate macronutrient ratios to support prolonged concentration. 

It was a Tuesday in mid-November, and the sky was a steely gray as Spock walked quickly from the lobby across the fading yellow-green grass of the west quadrangle. He began to think of a particularly challenging equation, one that had appeared on the astrophysics review and would almost certainly be included on the upcoming exam. So involved was Spock that he neglected to notice his whereabouts for a duration of several minutes. He knew only that he walked, and thought, and that he felt as if the solution to the problem was just within reach when he looked up to find himself standing before Pike’s office, looking at the rectangular brushed-aluminum plate that bore his name. The door opened abruptly, and the answer materialized in Spock’s brain as if the two were somehow related, though Spock knew this could not possibly be the case. 

Pike’s assistant stood in the doorway, holding a white ceramic mug. “Oh!” she said, clutching the mug to her chest. “You startled me.” 

Spock blinked at her. Her name was Eva, and she was, fittingly, rather quiet herself. “My apologies,” he said. “I was…” he was unsure precisely how to finish the sentence, but Eva seemed to draw her own conclusions. 

“He’s not in,” she said. “He’ll be in a meeting with Admiral Boyce for another 45 minutes.” She half-turned, peering into the glass wall that separated her own office from Pike’s. “But I’m sure he wouldn’t mind if you waited.” 

Spock was engrossed in another problem set when Pike opened the door 53 minutes later. If he was surprised to find Spock there, he did not reveal it. He sat down at his own desk and bent over his PADD, and for the next hour the two of them worked like that, in silence, the whir of the climate controls their only accompaniment. 

By the approach of December’s final exam period, Spock had abandoned the library for Pike’s office altogether. One afternoon, over takeout plomeek soup from the restaurant they visited that first afternoon, Pike set his spoon down and began to speak. 

“You headed back home for the holiday?” 

The question took Spock aback, although he did not reveal it. He had never considered returning to Vulcan for the month-long hiatus between the fall and spring semesters. Instead, he had obtained one of the waivers the Academy housing department offered to offworlders, allowing him to remain in the dormitory over the break. 

“I am not,” he said. “I will remain on campus; I have research to conduct that would be impossible on Vulcan. I will be allowed unfettered access to the long-range sensor laboratory, and as you are aware, there is a storm system moving into the far Beta quadrant that will prove invaluable in terms of data collection.” 

“Sounds like you’ve got it all thought out,” Pike said. “It can get pretty lonely around here when campus is closed.” 

“I am Vulcan,” said Spock archly. 

“How could I forget,” said Pike, his tone teasing but benevolently so. “Still, if you want company on the 25th, Number One and I always seem to end up with a houseful of strays, so you’re welcome for dinner.” 

“Number One?” 

“My XO. Well, my ex-XO. It’s complicated. Anyway, you saw her that night in the bar.” 

Spock recalled long black hair, the red slash of her mouth around the lip of her glass. The mental image of this woman on the bridge of a starship sent a thrill through Spock that he was at a loss to quantify. He swallowed. “I recall. Her name is unusual,” he said. 

“It’s not her real name. Or, at least, I don’t think it is. She’s a bit tight-lipped about certain things.” 

“You share a residence?” 

“What? Oh, no. No, we’re not--no. We don’t.” 

Spock thought he could detect the faintest flush creep into Pike’s cheeks, which was perplexing, as the room’s ambient temperature was cool enough that Spock still wore his coat and scarf. 

Pike exhaled. “Her place is bigger, that’s all. And she makes a point of staying on top of cadets who aren’t from around here, making sure they’re getting their needs met. She edits the cultural competency manual. Anyway, I just wanted to make sure you knew the invitation was open.” 

“Thank you for your consideration,” Spock said. “However, as I do not celebrate Terran religious holidays, I will decline.” 

“Fair enough,” Pike said. “Just keep it in mind.” He wiped his mouth, tossing the napkin and takeout container into the recycler. “So, take me through these histograms one more time, would you?”

***

Spock shifted from foot to foot on the doorstep, belatedly wondering if he should have brought a gift. As he had no knowledge of what either Pike or Number One might require, however, his selection would have been random and likely superfluous. Vulcans were not enamoured of surprises, and Spock was no exception. He briefly considered simply turning around and leaving, but the evening was cool and Spock’s extremities already threatened numbness despite wool socks, boots, and gloves. He rang the bell.

The door opened, a rectangle of warm yellow light. The color was heartening, and backlit in its center was Number One. She was smiling. “You came,” she said simply. 

“Yes,” said Spock. “I hope I was not presumptuous--” 

She waved him inside. “Nonsense,” she said. “We’re happy to have you. Chris will be pleased.” She gave Spock a second, smaller smile. “Come,” she said. 

Number One lived in a large apartment, as full of warmth and light as Spock’s first look inside had promised. Guests milled around, and true to Pike’s description humans were in the minority. A fire roared in the hearth. It had been so long since Spock had seen flame that he stood in the foyer and stared across at it, mesmerized.

“Please, sit,” Number One said. “I’ll get you a drink.” 

Spock did not bother specifying a preference. Instead, he did as he was told, walking through to the living room and sitting on an oversized white couch. To the left of the fireplace was a decorated tree, and the sight of it conjured an image of his family home on Vulcan so intensely that Spock imagined he could hear his mother in the kitchen, singing carols to herself as she prepared the evening meal. 

Amanda had always loved Christmas. Spock spoke the truth when he told Pike he did not celebrate religious holidays, for Amanda’s enjoyment was strictly secular. This did not preclude endless recitation of the Christmas story, or the display of a carved stone nativity scene into which Spock inserted the odd toy sehlat, much to his mother’s amusement. Spock had always maintained that a sehlat cub made a most appropriate gift for a newborn.

A voice interrupted his reminisces. “I was dispatched to bring you this,” Pike said. He stood next to Spock, holding a mug. 

“Thank you,” Spock said, reaching out to take it. As he did, their fingers brushed just slightly. Spock did not start, however, merely accepted the mug and wrapped his hands around it. Warmth seeped into his skin, and he was put in mind of the aforementioned sehlat, curled in a spot of sun. The tea smelled familiar, bitter and pungent and like home. 

“This is _theris_ ,” he said. “Where did you find it?” 

“We had a Vulcan engineer on our last mission,” Pike said. “T’hael. She took the replicator apart from top to bottom trying to get it to make a decent cup of tea, and wouldn’t you know it, One and I taste-tested so many of her experiments that we started to like the stuff. She just took a temporary transfer to the VSA, so she sent us a stash.” 

Spock took a sip. The tea was very fresh, much more so than the somewhat dusty cups he brewed from the slim pickings at the local tea shops. Vulcan native agriculture was rare enough without significant offworld exports, so to drink a well-brewed cup of _theris_ on Earth was a luxury indeed. 

“Thank you,” Spock said again, with the sudden realization that he was referring to more than simply the tea. If Pike understood as much, he did not reveal it. He sat down in an armchair opposite Spock, with the ease of someone who has spent so much time in a place it might as well be his own. He took a sip of his own glass of wine. 

“So, how’s your break going? Have you been able to get into the sensor lab?” 

Spock had, and he told Pike about it gladly, summarizing his latest data set until Number One called them into the dining room to eat. 

The table was laden with platter after platter of food. There was an exceedingly friendly Orion seated to his left, and she pointed out the numerous vegetarian dishes. “I’ve come here for the past three years,” said the Orion, whose name was Thalia. She sighed happily. “Isn’t it nice? Sure beats sitting by yourself in your dorm eating takeout.” 

Spock did not say so aloud, but he inwardly acknowledged that company was indeed preferable to the alternative. The realization was not entirely unsurprising. 

“So how do you know Number One?” Thalia asked. 

“Is that truly her name?” Spock asked. 

Thalia shrugged. “I’ve never heard her called anything different,” she said. She lowered her voice conspiratorially, “Apparently she’s from Iryllia; she was genetically engineered to be the best of her people. Hence…”

“Number One,” Spock finished. “Fascinating.” What would it be like, he wondered, to be engineered with the end goal of superiority rather than merely adequacy? Spock’s very survival had been a triumph in the eyes of Vulcan’s leading geneticists. What if it had been a foregone conclusion? But Thalia was watching him, and these were not thoughts to indulge in company. Spock served himself from a platter of roasted potatoes and consciously closed his mind. 

Later, the guests dispersed slowly. Spock remained, along with several others, to assist Pike and Number One in clearing the table and cleaning the kitchen. The process was lengthy. Finally, Spock scraped the last plate into the recycler and turned to find another mug of tea waiting for him on the counter. Pike leaned up against it, and Spock detected a hint of what might have been rakishness in the angle of his repose. He stood up straighter as if in counterpoint. 

“Thank you,” Spock said automatically, reaching for the tea. Could he say nothing else?

“You are welcome,” Pike said, enunciating the words such that Spock got the distinct impression he knew Spock’s thoughts. 

Spock took a sip, savoring the bitterness on his tongue. He thought of Vulcan, burnt red in the glow of her sun light years overhead. Despite the benefit of his controls, something must have shown in his face, some shameful ghost of feeling. Pike’s face echoed it the way humans often did. The impulse made little sense to Spock--why would one wish to vicariously experience another’s emotions?--yet demonstrating empathy was somehow intrinsic to the human experience. He was uncertain he could ever hope to understand. 

“It’s all right, you know,” Pike said. “To miss it.” 

Spock turned away. He watched the clock on the kitchen wall, the second hand clicking dauntlessly forward, seven seconds fast.

2251

Spock studied his reflection in the mirror for the fifth time. The likelihood that his appearance had changed over the past twenty minutes, during which he had remained within the confines of his room, was statistically unlikely. He looked anyway. At the appointed time, the vidscreen chimed, informing Spock he had an incoming message. He rolled his desk chair in front of the screen, then thought better of it and got to his feet instead. He tapped the screen, accepting the message, and was immediately met with an outsize image of his father’s face. 

“Greetings, Spock,” said Sarek. 

“Father. I trust you are well?” 

“Indeed,” Sarek said. “And yourself?”

“I am well also,” Spock said. “You wished to speak with me?” Spock admitted to some curiosity as to Sarek’s reasoning for requesting a vidconference rather than communicating in writing, as was his usual preference. Though Spock supposed if the matter had been emergent, Sarek would not have written him beforehand to establish a mutually convenient time. 

“Your mother wished to express her congratulations on the successful publication of your research paper,” Sarek said. 

On cue, he moved aside, and Amanda stepped into range of the camera. As she was several inches shorter than his father, only the top of her head was visible. She wrestled the cam into a better position, and then there she was, smiling at him beautifically. Spock could not react quickly enough to stop the rush of warmth he felt at the sight of her, but he quelled it as quickly as possible. His control had always been lacking where she was concerned. Perhaps it was biological, the pull of the infant’s need for survival trumping logic at the basest of levels. He supposed that in itself was logical, in its way, or maybe he sought justification for a point of weakness. In any case, the moment had passed, and Spock found the foothold of his controls once more. 

“Spock? Are you okay?” 

He blinked. Amanda stared across the comm link, across light years, yet she might have been peering around the doorway of his bedroom, so familiar was her furrowed brow and the unabashed concern in her brown eyes. 

“Of course, Mother,” he said. 

“Okay,” she said skeptically. She seemed to make a conscious decision to drop this line of questioning, because she relaxed her face and smiled brightly again. “So, tell me all about your paper,” she said. “You’re working with...what did your father say, with an admiral?” 

“A captain.” 

“A captain,” she echoed. “And does this captain have a name?”

***

“So I was thinking,” Pike said, taking a sip of champagne.They had just concluded a successful presentation of the ion storm project to the admiralty, and Pike had insisted on celebrating. They sat at a tiny table in a quiet bistro Spock could only describe as intimate.

Pike swallowed and continued. “I think it’s finally time I bit the bullet and hired a teaching assistant. It’s taking me way more time than it should to get through grading. I mean, I enjoy teaching, but let’s just say I’d be happy to do away with the minutiae, and it looks like I’m going to get saddled with the midwest circuit for recruitment next semester, so I’ll need someone here to help square things away for the fall. I could put the word out, but I was thinking I’d give you first right of refusal.” 

“Captain?” 

“The job’s yours if you want it.” 

Spock took a contemplative bite of asparagus. He saw no reason why he should not continue to work for Captain Pike. The work was stimulating, though arguably a teaching assistant’s responsibilities would prove less interesting than conducting research. There was also the matter of credits; Spock had few expenses, but he thought he would admit to a small measure of pride should he find himself in a position to decline Sarek’s offers of financial assistance. 

“Very well,” Spock said. 

“Excellent,” Pike said. “Welcome aboard. So, now that that’s out of the way, I propose we put a moratorium on all talk of Starfleet Academy or ion storms for the remainder of the evening.” 

Spock took a sip of his water. “That is acceptable,” he said. “Although I would like to go on record as stating that am rarely averse to discussion of ion storms.” 

“I’ll keep that in mind."

“Is there a particular topic you wish to discuss?” Spock asked. 

Pike looked eager, as if he had seen an opportunity he wished to seize. “Well, now that you mention it, I have to admit I’m curious. Your scores were well within the Vulcan Science Academy’s cutoffs. Way above average, even. And it goes without saying I’m very pleased you chose us, I just--why Starfleet?” 

“Did you not just declare the Academy off-limits as a conversational topic?” 

“Consider this a personal question. Although I'm interested in a professional capacity.” 

Spock hesitated. He had not spoken of this subject since the day he strode from the High Council’s chambers, his father’s gaze boring into his back. He had ignored his mother’s entreaty to stop, to listen. He had exited the building and hailed a passing transport, taking a seat amongst a score of blank Vulcans who likely considered him as much a fellow as he had up until several minutes prior. He rode the transport deeper into the city, where he found a café and ordered a cup of tea. His mother appeared to utilize tea in a medicinal manner on occasion, and Spock found himself hoping, however illogically, that the warm cup in his hands would soothe more than his throat. When he was halfway through the cup, he opened his PADD, logged into his email client, and formally accepted Starfleet’s offer of admission. 

The sun was near to setting when Spock returned home that evening, though he would not retire to bed for many hours yet. First came the task of informing his parents of what would become of him following his scandalous and unprecedented rejection of the VSA’s offer of admission. 

“Before me, no Vulcan had ever declined admission to the Academy,” he said carefully. “Although, as I informed the Academy Council the day I became the first, technically their record remains intact. As Vulcans embrace technicality, I am certain they have not amended it.” 

“Your mother,” Pike said. “You came here because of her?” 

“Indirectly,” Spock said. “In retrospect, I suppose it was something of an impulsive decision. As Vulcans do not succumb to impulse, I am left to conclude that perhaps I was not compatible with the VSA’s mission after all.” 

“You took a risk, leapt without looking,” Pike said. “I like it.” 

“One might argue that to do so is the very height of folly.” 

“Or one might argue that it’s brave.”

2252

Spock did not sleep every night. His typical sleeping cycle was 8 hours every 72. By the dictates of the curious phenomenon humans referred to as “Murphy’s Law,” the emergency comm came when he was in the midst of a REM cycle. His response time was thus decreased considerably, so his comm unit was on its tenth or so tinny ring by the time he roused and sought it out atop his desk.

“Spock here,” he said, rubbing at one eye with the heel of his hand.

“Spock, it’s Number One. I’m sorry to disturb you; I just...I wasn’t sure who else to call…” her voice, ordinarily so clear and unwavering, dissolved into a choked sob. He held the comm away from his ear, then replaced it, feeling faintly ashamed of his negative reaction. 

On the other end of the line, Number One took a deep breath. 

“I’m sorry,” she said again. “There’s been...Chris has been in an accident.” 

Spock’s fingers tightened on the comm unit. “What has happened?” he asked tersely. 

“Explosive decompression. He was doing a spacewalk demo and his suit was compromised.” 

“Is he--”

“He’s okay. Well, he’s going to be okay. I’m on my way to Medical now, I--”

“I will meet you there,” Spock said, scrabbling free of his blanket and getting to his feet. He fumbled in the wardrobe with his free hand and drew out a pair of pants. 

Number One began to protest, but then she stopped, sighing thickly. “Thank you,” she said. “I’ll see you soon.” 

Starfleet Medical was bright and white, painfully so. Spock thought nothing could possibly hide here, no shred of feeling could be kept private in this place where sterile light spread to every last corner. He blinked, and bit his lip against a yawn. Number One met him in the waiting area on the mezzanine, her complexion pale and bluish under the fluorescents, like thin milk. She looked different somehow, and Spock realized belatedly that her lips were unpainted, bloodless as the rest of her. She stepped close to him, and he knew that if he had been human she would have touched him. Perhaps they would have embraced. His arms felt out of place and too empty. He crossed them over his chest. 

“He just went into surgery. There was extensive lung damage, apparently. It’ll be awhile before we hear anything.” 

“You are shaking,” Spock said. 

She looked at her hands. “Oh, am I?” She looked back up at Spock, and her eyes had a wildness to them that Spock found intensely disconcerting. 

“Are there...should we alert his family?” 

She laughed at that, and the last note of it pitched too high. Spock thought perhaps she should sit down, but he did not know how best to frame the suggestion. “We _are_ his family,” Number One said. “D'you know what that idiot did a few years back? He gave me medical power of attorney. Me.” She wiped at her eyes. 

“You are his executive officer,” Spock offered. 

“Not any more, not really. We’ve been back dirtside for almost five years. You’d think by now there’d be someone...but no, it’s just Chris and me, like it’s always been. It fits, I guess. But damn if it isn’t hard as hell to think about being the one to…” 

“Surely you are accustomed to one another becoming injured?"

“Of course,” she said. “But it’s different in space. You’ll see what I mean, one day. Sometimes it’s like you’re in another dimension, like you stop being _you_ and become part of something...something bigger, like your ship and your crew are just one big unified organism swimming around up there in the black.” 

Spock found this difficult to imagine, but he did not say so. 

“You know, when we came back, I was tired,” Number One said. “I thought I was ready for a change. And it was good for awhile, the novelty of it. There’s so much _room_ here. But I’m starting to think…” She shook her head. 

Spock was unsure how to proceed. He recalled Thiri’s study methods. Humans often seemed assuaged by food in stressful situations. “I believe the cafe on the first level remains open,” he said. “They appeared to boast an appealing supply of baked goods.” 

Number One smiled at him. “Let’s go drown our sorrows in muffins,” she said. 

Spock did not bother to clarify that Vulcans had no sorrows to drown, and he did not flinch when she took his arm.

***

“Am I dead? Are there Vulcans in heaven? They never taught us that in Vacation Bible School.”

“I cannot speak to the nature of heaven,” Spock said. “However, I can attest that my _katra_ remains bound to the physical plane, and that according to your life-signs readings, you are objectively...not dead.” 

Pike coughed, blinking at the aggressively lit hospital room. He tried to struggle upright and summarily failed, settling back against the pillows. 

“I was told to prevent you from moving, should you awaken,” Spock said. 

“Fine by me,” Pike said, before his voice devolved into another hale of hacking coughs. “What--what happened? I feel like I’ve been breathing in battery acid.” 

“Explosive decompression,” Spock said quietly. “Your suit became compromised while you were giving a demonstration of proper spacewalk protocol.” 

Pike winced. “Did you hear that? That was the sound of forty cadets resigning their commissions all at once.” 

“They are members of Starfleet,” Spock said. “Surely they are aware of the inherent dangers of our overall mission.” 

“One would hope. But it’s one thing to read about explosive decomp and another to watch someone cry tears of blood right in front of you.” 

Spock’s gorge rose involuntarily. Despite his controls, he did not think he could swear to unflappability in such a scenario. “That is...an arresting image,” he said. 

“Yeah, it is. Remind me never to tell you what happened on Janus V.” 

Spock did not request clarification. He decided Pike would likely not be averse to a change of subject, so he brandished his PADD and made a show of opening Pike’s calendar. “I have taken the liberty of scheduling guest lectures for CMD 201 for the next month, organized by relevance to each designated learning objective. I have also completed the latest round of revisions to this year’s recruitment guidelines, though I would prefer if you reviewed them prior to submission.” 

Pike watched Spock's impromptu lecture with a distinctly warm expression, not that Spock noticed or responded in kind. 

"Have you been sleeping?" Pike asked. "What about your schoolwork?” 

“As needed,” Spock said, fully aware of the ambiguity of his response. 

“I feel like I’ve been hit by a bus, which is the only reason you’re getting away with that.” Pike said. “Go on, get out of here, and don’t come back until you’ve slept or meditated and eaten something not from the hospital cafeteria.” 

“Very well.” Spock collected his things and rose to leave, feeling certain about his decision to do so for the first time in three days. 

“Spock?” 

Spock turned back to the bed. “Sir?” 

“Where would I be without you?” 

Spock raised an eyebrow. “I do not know. Likely, nowhere good.” 

He exited the room to the sounds of Pike laughing himself into another coughing fit. As Vulcans do not smile, Spock most certainly did not do so as he leaned against the wall of the turbolift, body slack with relief.

2253

Vulcans did not pace. Spock was merely...stretching his legs. He performed more productively when he took breaks, and besides, sitting for long periods was detrimental to one’s circulation. If his perambulation of the room coincided with the projected receipt of a much-anticipated message, this was surely coincidence.

Pike had been planning the senior command seminar for the better part of five years, or so he had communicated to Spock over the long hours they had spent in his office going over logistics. He envisioned the seminar as the ultimate academy experience for command-track cadets, a year-long course designed to serve as praxis writ large. The first semester involved planning and preparation, both physical and mental, and the second would see the class off on a simulated deep-space mission, likely a planetary survey of some kind. It had taken considerable convincing, but eventually the admiralty conceded that a longer, more in-depth practicum was lacking in the command curriculum. The course would not be mandatory; indeed, Pike designed it specifically to be highly selective, registration by approval only. The registration period for the fall semester had come and gone, and rumor had it Pike had been predictably swamped with applications for the twenty available spots. Ordinarily, Spock would likely have found himself holed up in Pike’s office helping him narrow down his candidates. But that was not currently possible, for as Spock had made his own application to the seminar, it would have represented a conflict of interest. 

“Will the course be limited to command track cadets?” Spock had asked Pike this question months ago, during one of the evenings planning had consumed them, and they had been up together late into the night scrawling notes by hand on actual loose leaf paper. 

“That’s a good question,” Pike said. “You know, I was going to limit it, but now that I think about it, it might be a smart move to keep it open. ‘Fleet’s been talking up cross-specialization for awhile now, but it’s been difficult for cadets to make it work in practice. Maybe we can start changing that.” 

Spock had simply nodded, and returned to the task at hand. But the conversation watered a seed that had since germinated, and Spock had spent the late spring and summer rearranging his course schedule and double- and triple-checking that it would be possible to complete his science-track requirements from space. Now, all that remained was to receive his acceptance. He had deliberated informing Pike of his intent to apply, but ultimately decided against it. He told himself that such deliberation was unnecessary; he was exactly as qualified, if not more so, than the other candidates, having completed the necessary command-track prerequisites alongside his science courses. In his weakest, most private moments, he imagined Pike’s reaction to receiving his file. Would he derive satisfaction from it, or perhaps even pride? Always, he would mentally shake himself and initiate meditation as a result of this undue focus on emotion, deeming each occurrence the last. It never was. 

Spock’s PADD chimed, and he froze momentarily, recovering within milliseconds and skating his finger over the touchscreen to open his email application. He swallowed. 

_From: Pike, Christopher  
Subj: Course roster for CMD 430S: Senior Seminar_

_Cadets,_

_Please find attached the course roster for CMD 430S. Accepted students must attend a mandatory course meeting in Daystrom 206 Monday, Sept. 5._

_Best, Christopher Pike_

Spock scanned the course roster three times before he fully accepted that he was not, in fact, suffering from some previously undiagnosed selective blindness and arrived at the logical conclusion. He had not been accepted. 

Spock’s Vulcan half, the entirety of his upbringing and socialization up until three years prior, calmly took him through any number of perfectly cromulent reasons why this should be the case. Perhaps it would be instructional, he thought, to pay Pike a visit and inquire as to the precise areas in which his application was found wanting. This would not be the first competitive position Spock would seek to win, after all, and if there was room for improvement all the better that he should discover its nature as early as possible. 

He arrived at Pike’s office door with a concise but thorough mental list of questions. Eva was nowhere to be seen, but then it was late in the day, and since the birth of her daughter the previous spring Pike often gave her leave to return home early if possible. Spock was relaxed and confident up until the very moment Pike opened his door, and then everything fell apart. 

Pike said nothing, just opened the door for Spock and moved aside so he could come in. The look on his face told Spock that this visit was not unexpected, which silenced the minute but hopeful part of his brain that insisted that his omission from the roster was an error. For the first time since receiving the message, Spock felt a tiny spark of anger. He willed it down with far too much difficulty.

Pike turned to face the western wall, as if examining the holo hanging there with great interest. “I was wondering how long it’d take you to show up,” he said. 

“I admit to some difficulty in comprehending your decision,” Spock said. “I thought--”

“You’re unqualified,” Pike said, almost cursorily, as if he fully understood the miniscule probability that Spock would take his answer at face value. 

“With all due respect, sir, that is factually incorrect. While it is true that I have not formally declared a cross-specialty, I have completed the necessary command prerequisites and passed with excellent marks in all of them. Additionally...while I by no means expected to receive preferential treatment, I did think that our association--”

Pike turned back to Spock. “Oh, so that’s it? You’ve been working for me all his time with your eye on the prize, waiting to see how you could get ahead?” There was an edge to Pike’s words that Spock had never heard before. The tone engendered a dull, diffuse sense of dread, though Spock could not say why that was so.

“On the contrary, I...I initially chose to assist you on your ion storm research out of a personal interest in the subject matter and a desire see theory through to a practical, applied conclusion. I must admit that I later accepted the position as your teaching assistant partially out of a sense of personal esteem rather than on the basis of pure logic. My personal advancement ceased to be a consideration in any but the most general terms.” 

He spoke the truth; regardless, Spock found it difficult to meet Pike’s eye. 

“What, you’re telling me you’ve been hanging around doing my dirty work for three years because you like me? That’s rich, coming from a Vulcan.” 

“My heritage does not preclude interpersonal relationships,” Spock said, unsure where exactly the words had come from, or why he had the distinct impression that their conversation was no longer solely applicable to the matter of the command seminar. 

Pike laughed, a harsh bark, and turned away again. “Jesus Christ, Spock,” he said, shaking his head. “What exactly are you arguing for here?” 

“I do not know.” 

Pike whirled to face him, raking a hand through his hair. He looked exhausted, older, the lines creasing his forehead and the corners of his eyes in sharper relief than Spock remembered from their last meeting just two days earlier. He sighed. “You really want to know why I turned you down?” 

“Yes,” Spock said quietly. But as he regarded Pike, the trepidation that sat heavy in his gut seemed to coalesce into knowledge, into a certainty that was somehow far, far worse. Spock felt as if he were standing outside his body and watching as he took a step closer to Pike, then another. “Yes,” he said again. 

Pike’s gaze dropped momentarily to Spock’s mouth, and if Spock had not known already he certainly would have now. He felt a frisson of energy as he stepped closer still, into Pike’s personal space. 

“Step back, Cadet,” Pike said through clenched teeth. “That’s an order.” 

Spock took a breath. His extremities tingled, and some small, animal part of him badly wanted to run. He ignored it. He exhaled slowly, breathed the words out like air. “Tell me.” 

Something seemed to pass out of Pike then, predatory and dangerous, and the set of his shoulders softened. He looked less like he was going to strike Spock, which was probably positive, all things considered. He shifted his weight to the opposite foot. They were so close together that the motion brought his arm into contact with Spock’s with a soft rustle of fabric. 

“You want me to quote regs?” Pike said.

“If it would help.” 

Pike snorted, the laugh warm now despite the palpable tension in the room. “Fuck,” he said. “Look up ‘emotional compromise’ in the manual; that should get you off to a decent start.” 

Spock took another breath. The sensation of incorporeality had increased, and all at once he wanted to counter it, to feel grounded again. Slowly, deliberately, he leaned against Pike. They were mismatched in height, Pike the shorter by several inches, and Spock had to stoop slightly to avoid a faceful of Pike’s hair as he rested his forehead against Pike’s temple. 

“Do you think I have not already done so?” Spock said softly. 

Pike tensed. There was an abbreviated sound, half a word spoken and the rest bitten back. 

“Sir--” Spock was unsure what else he’d planned to say, and he did not have occasion to think on it further, because Pike turned his head then. They were so close that it took barely any movement at all for Spock to bridge the gap and kiss him the human way. He fell just wide of his mark, fumbling with the foreignness of the gesture and pressing his lips to the corner of Pike’s mouth. He righted himself in short order, and Pike gave a hum as if in protest. Spock, full of sudden bravado, brought his hands up and around Pike’s shoulders and held him fast. 

After a moment, however, Pike succeeded in pulling away. He did not move from Spock’s  
grasp, however, only turned his head slightly to one side and rested his forehead against Spock’s. 

“You should go,” he said. 

Spock noted that Pike himself made no move to that end. They remained still and silent for a time, Spock not bothering to note exactitudes. At last, he straightened, but as he did so Pike made an inchoate noise and took hold of the back of Spock’s head, kissing him again. The kiss was deeper this time, and when Spock opened his mouth wider in surprise Pike took the opportunity to deepen it further. Spock froze, taken aback by the somewhat shocking presence of another being’s tongue in his mouth. His reticence had the unwanted consequence of causing Pike to pull away, breathing heavily and shaking his head as if surfacing after a long time underwater. 

“You should really, really go,” Pike said. 

Spock wiped absently at his mouth with the back of his hand. “I…” 

_I do not wish it_ , he wanted to say. The words were there, on the tip of his tongue, but he could not speak them. 

“Very well,” he said. He turned to go, but something stilled him, a noise or a trick of the fading light across the opposite wall. Some indicator of movement made him stop, turn back. Pike was staring after him with an unreadable expression, and Spock wanted desperately to speak, but he found his earlier choice of words had deserted him, leaving a haze of disorientation in its wake. 

He turned away again, saying nothing. When he reached for the door, he did so with a shaking hand.

Upon returning to his dormitory, Spock drafted a message formally resigning his position as Pike’s teaching assistant. He read it over twice, to be certain his language was as precise and clinical as he could possibly render it. When he was satisfied, he hit send.

Vulcans did not experience surprise, so it followed that Spock should feel none when his memorandum did not receive a reply.

2254

The rumors began to swirl by the middle of spring.

_Spock--you know, Spock, that Vulcan who never talks to anyone? He's graduating with the highest honors ever awarded to a Starfleet cadet. He's getting his pick of the fleet, and he's getting bumped straight up the command chain, bypassing ensign entirely and heading straight for lieutenant commander. What’s it going to be like for some poor science wonk who finds himself answering to a computer who’s ten years younger? Did you hear he’s being groomed for captain? I didn’t even know he was command track. You know, Spock. Pike’s TA. He was practically in the guy’s back pocket every class last year._

By the middle of summer, they’d taken on a slightly different tone. Apparently, Spock-the-Vulcan, “one of Starfleet’s most distinguished graduates,” wasn’t even getting a shipboard assignment. He was sticking around San Francisco, working on some super secret project for command. And all those science wonks who’d bitched and moaned about being outranked by a green cadet still wet behind the pointy ears were suddenly up in arms, because if anyone deserved said pointy-eared newbie--and he’s Vulcan, did we mention he’s Vulcan?--it was the _Farragut_ / the _Defiant_ / the _Churchill_ etc. 

If Spock heard these rumors, he did not let on. If he had, however, he might have seen fit to correct several points. It was not strictly true that he did not speak to anyone. He maintained collegial relationships with several members of Starfleet’s science departments, both cadets and faculty. He had occasionally been seen in the company of an Orion female, one Thalia Zrv. And he had a standing social engagement with a certain Iryllian commander once a month, although they occasionally met more frequently. He was never at liberty to handpick the ship of his choice, though it had been intimated to him on several occasions that his presence on board the _Farragut_ / _Defiant_ / _Churchill_ etc. would be welcome, should he choose to pursue a posting on board a starship. 

The matter of his first assignment following graduation from Starfleet Academy, however, was not mere rumor. Spock was indeed electing to remain in San Francisco, and command had indeed recruited him for a specific purpose. A test, they said. A simulation, designed to drive home the often grim reality of space and her myriad dangers. They called it the _Kobayashi Maru_ , named for a fictional ship the test subject would attempt to rescue, though this attempt was doomed to failure. The admiralty wished to create a test that was, for all intents and purposes, unpassable; a successful administration resulted only in incitement of abject fear in the test’s subject. To pass the test would be to harness this fear, to distill it into action, to maintain command of oneself and one’s crew. 

“Sir, are you certain you wish to entrust the development of such a test to a programmer who does not feel fear?” 

Spock stood before Admiral Boyce’s desk, holding a paper envelope that contained a contract detailing the parameters of his assignment. 

“You don’t have to take it, Cadet, you just have to write the code,” Boyce said. “We need a realistic computer sim. The drama will take care of itself.” 

He accepted the assignment the following day. The programming would prove challenging and thus intellectually stimulating, and the resulting test would be of considerable use to Starfleet in the future. His mother attempted to disguise her relief, undoubtedly thinking of Spock’s decreased probability of injury or death planetside. Sarek was not at home when Spock commed to inform his parents of his decision, so Spock could only have guessed at what he thought. He declined to do so. 

Spock sat at his desk when his PADD chimed, indicating receipt of a new message. 

He was beginning the first of what he anticipated would be many small-scale versions of the _Kobayashi Maru_ simulation, attempting to determine the most effective way to code the test. The hour was late; he had quit the computer labs prior to the evening meal, intending to retire early and meditate, but in the fresher he was struck by an idea. Thus, he had become absorbed in the computer model, and had been hunched before his personal machine for four hours and twenty-seven minutes. The sound of his PADD roused him from a state of intense concentration; he was so focused that he stared at the PADD for a full thirty seconds before recalling what the sound meant. 

When he read the subject line of the message, Spock’s brow furrowed. When he read and reread the sender’s address, he frowned outright. He schooled his features into blankness, though there was no one there to see him. Spock confirmed the time, then checked the timestamp on the message again. Then he saved his work on the simulation, stood, and left the room. He was halfway down in the turbolift when he realized he had neglected to put on his coat. He did not go back for it. 

His hands were already stiffening with cold when he arrived at his destination. There was a light burning inside the office, and Spock felt a sudden uncertainty, faced with the knowledge that he had been correct about Pike’s whereabouts. He raised his hand and pressed the button to the right of the door. 

“Come,” Pike said over the intercom, as easily as if it were common practice for cadets--colleagues, Spock reminded himself, for he was a cadet no longer--to descend on him at all hours of the night. 

Spock hesitated at the threshold for a moment, and stepped inside. Pike’s office door was open, and Spock walked through the shadowy waiting area toward it. He could see Pike’s hand illuminated in a golden cone of lamplight. He felt as if he were moving through thick mud, feet dragging on the close-cropped grey carpet for no logical reason other than the fact of that hand, holding a stylus.

“Get in here, Spock, and let’s get this over with.” 

Spock complied. He clasped his hands behind his back and tried to conjure some remnant of the earlier irritation that had led him out into the night. He stepped into the office and stood before Pike’s desk. 

Pike looked up at him. His face was expressionless, and for this Spock found himself grateful. 

“So, I can guess pretty well how this goes,” he said.

“I have been reassigned,” Spock said flatly. 

“So I hear.” 

“I have been reassigned to _your ship._ ” 

“Ah,” Pike said, quirking an eyebrow at Spock. He gestured at the adjacent chair. “Please, have a seat. I have a feeling you might wear yourself out giving me hell.” 

Spock remained standing. “I accepted a perfectly satisfactory assignment programming--”

“The _Kobayashi Maru_ , yes, I know. I like the name, by the way. It’s got a certain...mystique to it.” 

"I was not responsible for the name,” Spock said. He shook his head slightly. “And the name of the test is irrelevant, as is my assignment to it, as it seems I am now the ranking science officer on the _Jemison_. So, _sir_ , if you would do me the courtesy of explaining how you circumnavigated an assignment I received directly from the admiralty, I would be most appreciative.” 

“I called in a favor,” Pike said with a shrug. “Not easily, I might add. You’re the hot ticket around here these days. The admiralty dug in their heels, let me tell you.” 

“Had you stopped to consider my wishes--” 

“Are you honestly telling me that this is what you want? To be stashed away in a back room tapping away at a keyboard, wasting the best years of your career?” 

“You presume that I would follow your path. Do you not find a certain arrogance inherent in that assumption?” 

Pike shook his head, a slow smile spreading across his face. He was enjoying this, Spock realized. He was deliberately attempting to provoke an emotional response, but to what end? 

“I don’t presume anything. But if that’s what you want, then fine, I’ll go crawling back to Boyce and Archer and the rest of them with my tail between my legs and tell them I was wrong and they can have their Vulcan back.” 

“Their Vulcan,” Spock echoed quietly. 

Pike sighed. “That’s not what I meant. Bad choice of--look, here’s the thing, okay? You’re...you’re brilliant, Spock. And that’s not because you’re Vulcan, it’s because you’re you. You deserve the best, and this assignment? The _Jemison_? It’s the best. So take it or don’t, but I thought you should at least have the option.” 

Spock looked at the floor. “We have not spoken for three hundred and eighty solar days."

“I know.” 

“You implied that you were...emotionally compromised, that that precluded our serving together.” 

“It did.” He ran a hand over his face. “Hell, maybe it still does, or should. Or maybe I was wrong, not letting you into the seminar. Maybe it would have been fine. But at the time, all I could see was the worst case scenario, some accident or just...just close quarters. Whatever it was, it seemed best not to give it a chance to happen in the first place.” 

“Had we spoken as equals, we might have come to that conclusion together,” Spock said. 

“We weren’t equals, though, were we. One could argue that it was my responsibility, not yours. _Cadet._ ” 

Spock looked up at him. Pike’s face was half in shadow and the light seemed sharper for it where it bisected his nose, his lips. 

Spock walked around the desk to stand next to Pike’s chair. He placed his hand on the finely grained synthwood surface, palm down, an anchor. Before he could think better of it, he knelt. “I am no longer a cadet,” he said. 

Pike swiveled his chair to face Spock, leaning down, his elbows resting on his thighs and his hands lax at the wrists. “No,” he said. “No, you’re not.” He exhaled, and then allowed himself to fall further forward onto his elbows, as if the lungsful of air alone had been keeping him upright. His head dropped so that Spock was left contemplating the top of it. His gaze dropped to Pike’s hands, limp and waiting. Spock reached out carefully, not daring to breathe, and brushed his middle and index fingers across Pike’s. 

He was reminded of the incident at the bar four years earlier, the burst of feeling that punched through Spock’s psi-barriers with regard for neither pain nor propriety. The barrage of Pike’s thoughts was expected, but it was no less jarring. Spock could not discern any specific narrative, merely indistinct patches of emotion like thick impasto blotches on canvas. Regret, chiefly. Anxiety, and fondness, and the crackling flame-edge of desire. Pike looked up at him, and Spock knew that he must be acutely aware of what he was projecting. 

Pike shrugged. Then he reached for Spock’s retreating fingers and repeated the gesture. Spock’s eyes closed involuntarily. Sensation shot up his arm in a warm, sparkling trail, and he felt his mouth drop open. Pike’s hands were warm and rough, and Spock might once have questioned the desirability of callouses in such a scenario. If he had, he had clearly been in error. He was unable to stifle a gasp before he shut his mouth, biting his lower lip. 

Pike looked off to Spock’s right, into the shadows. It made no difference to look away; he did not remove his fingers from Spock’s, thus their tenuous connection remained intact. Pike’s expression after Spock thought this indicated that he knew, and did not care. How must it be, thought Spock, to feel so secure in one’s mind as to harbor no wish to shield it?

“I didn’t intend for...for this to happen,” Pike said, nodding at their joined fingers. “I thought--”

“You believed I would refuse your assignment?” 

“I don’t know. Yes.” He smiled. “You can be stubborn when you want to be.” 

“I prefer ‘committed.’” 

“Well, I’ll be damned. Did you just crack a joke?” 

Spock raised an eyebrow. “I’m quite certain I have no idea what you are referring to, sir.” 

“Chris, Spock. Come on.” 

“Chris, then.” 

The name felt strange on his tongue, softer than seemed altogether appropriate for the man who sat before him now. Pike moved slowly, almost imperceptibly, as if he suspected Spock might bolt at any moment. He slid out of his chair to kneel beside Spock on the floor, shifting to sit back and cross his legs in front of him. Spock’s knees protested his position, so he followed suit. They sat together like children, and Pike reached across the place where their knees met to run a finger tentatively over the weave of Spock’s blacks. It was dark down here on the floor. Spock felt as if under the soft cloak of shadow they existed in some liminal space independent of anyone else in the universe. 

His heart thrummed, and in the quiet he could hear the rush of his pulse in his ears. He estimated the likelihood of their kissing again the human way at at least 90%. Whether this was positive or negative remained unclear. Pike lifted a hand and made as if to tuck a lock of hair behind Spock’s ear. He lingered over the point, and Spock reflexively leaned into the touch. Pike cupped Spock’s cheek in the flat of his palm, and the angle was such that it took only the smallest motion to lean in closer and let probability carry them forward. 

Spock had not gained experience in this area since their previous encounter, but at least he knew what was coming. He steeled himself for the warmth and wetness of it, the automatic tightening of his shields at such an intimate invasion. Part of it shocked him; the rest sang with a rising sense of comprehension. For now Spock _knew_ why humans did this. That this simple physical gesture could be precisely what he wished to do to another--to Pike--seemed to Spock like bone-deep instinct. Despite his theoretical knowledge of Vulcan biology, Spock could not fathom a full Vulcan feeling what he did now. 

He was so very glad for the dark. 

When they stopped, his lips felt swollen and his mouth tasted of errant copper. Pike ran a thumb over Spock’s lower lip and looked as though he wanted to put it to his own mouth, taste it. 

“What do you want?” he asked quietly. 

Spock blinked. He had no first-hand knowledge of mind-altering substances, but he imagined that his current state might not be too far off the mark. His head swam, and phosphenes flared in the dark. He watched them branch into nebulae across Pike’s face.

“I do not know,” he said. It was not strictly true; rather, it was true depending on which aspect of Spock was allowed to decide. He knew with a painful certainty what his body wanted. His mind, his logic--these were different matters entirely, bound up as they were with inconvenient reality. 

Pike took a long breath and exhaled through his nose. He closed his eyes and opened them again, and Spock wondered if he was witnessing some sort of human meditation procedure. When Pike next spoke, a hint of detached professionalism crept into his tone. Spock felt an inexplicable entanglement of relief and disappointment. He need only speak, he realized, and whatever they had played at in the gloaming would end, gone like _starok-lar_ at daybreak.

“Are you going to accept my offer?” 

“I am,” Spock said. He considered a moment, then leaned forward again and placed his hand carefully on Pike’s thigh. “Tomorrow.” 

Pike laughed at that. The sound reminded Spock of the night they met, of Pike and Number One sitting like a beacon in the loud, dirty bar. Warm as the light in Number One’s apartment three Decembers ago, as the first and last decent cups of tea Spock had had on Earth. 

“Noted,” Pike said, recovering himself. He reached up and touched Spock’s ear again, having evidently catalogued his earlier response to the contact. Spock reacted with similar aplomb, and leaned in to initiate another kiss. This time, he brought his hand up cautiously to touch Pike’s face, running his thumb over his jaw with its scrape of stubble. Spock opened his eyes and withdrew slightly to look at Pike, truly look at him. His eyes were deep-set and shadowed. Spock touched the thin skin beneath them with the pad of a finger. 

“You are tired,” he said. 

Pike took Spock’s hand and brought it to his lips. “I’ve had a lot on my mind,” he said against Spock’s fingers. Spock had the vague thought that perhaps Pike was alluding to him, but then it was chased from his brain by the realization that Pike had taken two of Spock’s fingers into his mouth. 

Spock made an incredibly embarrassing noise, and clutched at Pike’s shoulder with his free hand.

Pike laughed again, lower this time, and they were pressed so close together that Spock could feel the rumble of it in his own chest. “That never gets old,” Pike said. 

“Are you implying that you have--”

“Shh. I don’t kiss and tell.” 

Which was fine with Spock, really, as long as Pike continued his ministrations. Spock tucked his head against the juncture of Pike’s neck and shoulder, his lips seeking the beating vein there. Pike seemed appreciative, angling his head to allow Spock better access. They continued in this fashion for several minutes, Spock gradually kissing his way back up to Pike’s mouth, until Pike wrapped an arm around Spock and tugged him gently down onto the floor. With a sigh of regret, Spock slid his fingers out of Pike’s mouth and slung his arm over his back, using the leverage to push them closer together. Before he quite knew what he was doing, he was parting his legs to allow Pike to slide one of his own between them, and when Pike dropped his own hand to the small of Spock’s back and shoved Spock against him, Spock gasped into his mouth. 

Spock was not precisely a stranger to this variety of stimulation; he had spent an agonizing span of several months at the age of twelve certain he was dying in a slow and oddly pleasurable manner until Sarek had appeared in his bedroom one afternoon to deliver a halting monologue on “coming into one’s reproductive maturity.” In the end, he left Spock with many questions and a series of informational pamphlets. One would think that discussing such biological certainties would present no difficulty for a Vulcan. Spock had not yet worked out why this had not been the case with his father. 

Regardless, once he learned that he was not actually dying in literal fits and spurts, Spock had given himself over to research like any diligent scientist. Now, however, he realized the extent to which his own trials had paled in comparison. Pike was a warm, solid weight against him, and the friction provided by both their clothing and the halting rhythm they had established was alternately maddening and highly satisfactory. Presently, however, Spock found himself slipping fingers entreatingly beneath Pike’s collar, his waistband. Pike seemed to comprehend what Spock could not think far enough ahead to, and he took Spock’s face in his hands and kissed him soundly. He dropped his hands to Spock’s waist, undoing the hook and eye and unzipping him deftly. Spock tried to reciprocate, but Pike batted his hand away. 

He shook his head. “Just--”

He sat up, tugging down Spock’s pants to the extent it was possible to do so before gesturing for him to lift his hips. Spock had the vague thought that he should perhaps remove his shoes, but Pike abandoned his efforts, having clearly deemed Spock sufficiently undressed. Spock became hyperaware of his physiological state of excitement. A nexus of heat and pressure centered on his groin, and his face felt equally hot at the sight of Pike sitting above him, taking it all in with an expression on his face that looked very much like self-satisfaction. 

And then it all became exponentially worse, because Pike’s self-satisfied smirk grew wider and he leaned down over Spock and hooked his thumbs beneath the elastic of his briefs, dragging them down. Spock gasped as the cool air hit his skin. He risked a glance down the plane of his body, where his penis lay partially tumescent against his belly. He was struck with the sudden and illogical impulse to apologize, though he was uncertain precisely what for. Pike reached out with hands that were not even slightly shaky, which Spock would have deemed a miracle had he believed in such things. He took hold of Spock and made a motion with his wrist that caused Spock’s hips to jerk towards him involuntarily. Spock made a pained noise, and Pike ran a hand over his hip as if soothing an animal. 

“Shh,” Pike said. “Lie back.” 

Spock complied, his heart thumping in his side with such force that he thought it must be visible through his clothes, his skin. He fixed his gaze on the ceiling, unsure whether closing his eyes would make his sense of pleasurable disorientation better or worse. Pike’s hands were still on him, and Spock was beginning to think he might require distraction in order to slow the proceedings down. Then there was a humid puff of breath against his hip, and this was his only warning before the head of his penis was enveloped by heat and moisture. Spock cried out again. 

Spock could not help but sit up slightly, weight resting on his elbows. Pike leaned over him, his hands wrapped around the base of Spock’s penis. The rest of it--he had taken Spock into his mouth, and the sight of it was so unexpectedly erotic that Spock snapped his eyes shut at once for fear of what might happen otherwise. The wet heat enveloped him inch by inch, which could mean only that Pike was taking Spock deeper and deeper down his throat. Spock swallowed sympathetically, trying to imagine how it must feel. He thought he would certainly gag, although perhaps…perhaps Pike had _practice._ The thought of Pike on his knees before another male--the picture of it made Spock alternately furious and immensely aroused. He thrust forward into Pike’s mouth, stilling himself when he realized what he was doing, but then Pike pulled off of him with a lewd sound. 

“You can--Don’t worry about holding back,” he said. 

“Are you...are you certain? I do not--”

“Trust me,” Pike said, a hint of a laugh suffusing his tone. Then he returned to his ministrations. As if bent on proving himself, he took Spock the rest of the way down his throat in one smooth motion, his nose coming to rest against Spock’s body. 

“Ah!” Spock cried out in earnest, his body jack-knifing of its own volition. His hands flew forward, and it was only his abdominal muscles that allowed him to maintain balance. After a moment, he returned one hand to the floor, leaning on it for support, but he left one hand atop Pike’s head to tangle in his hair as lightly as Spock could manage. 

Pike pulled back, but just as Spock opened his mouth to comment positively on this display of prowess, Pike repeated his earlier motion and reduced Spock to a series of sub verbal gasps instead. He fell into a rhythm, and Spock could do nothing but half-sit, half-lie slumped on the floor and allow himself to be swept along. It was exquisitely torturous, to be reduced to a collection of twitching, gasping nerve endings with no hope of controlling himself. 

His shields would have been all but useless, if he had bothered to employ them. He considered it a small mercy that Pike was a member of a psi-null species, but that didn’t change the fact that if Spock concentrated he could feel bursts of feeling diffuse across the touch-bond. As before, Spock got the impression that Pike was fully aware of this fact and determined to use it to his advantage. For every attempt Spock made to ignore this small kernel of foreign consciousness, Pike seemed to redouble his efforts until his desire and pleasure and love swelled to fill Spock’s whole brain until he was unsure where Pike's thoughts ended and his own began. He was hopeless to resist. He felt so full with all of it, as if the pressure building in his groin was behind his eyes too, as if he might burst into his component atoms, a miniature supernova on Pike’s office floor. The thought was absurd, and so far gone was Spock that he barely contained a bark of laughter, biting it back just shy.

Hard as it was to imagine, Spock thought again of how might feel to do this to another--to Pike. Would Pike lie supine, as Spock did now? Or would Spock kneel before him? He imagined the ache of his jaw as he held it open, allowing Pike to thrust into him as he liked, to tangle his fingers in Spock’s hair. He imagined Pike making the kinds of sounds he himself was making, the sight of Pike’s face flushed and bleary with desire. And then Pike did something with his tongue that Spock’s brain did not bother to translate from sensory input to imagery. Spock pulled at Pike’s hair, suddenly desperate to get his attention, because…

“Sir,” he gasped. “Chris, I…”

Pike did not respond, simply moaned in a manner that would have been quite theatrical had his mouth not been full. As it was, the muffled sound sent vibrations singing across Spock’s nerve endings straight to the core of him, prodding at the knot of tension curled low in his belly. 

Pike pulled off again, and the cool air meeting Spock’s wet skin made him writhe. Spock looked up, and his eyes met Pike’s. Pike licked his lips. 

“Look at you,” he said. “I never thought…” He shook his head, and did not complete the sentence. Spock attempted to avoid his thoughts, the mental equivalent of glancing away from one who was in some private emotional distress. Still, he felt a tinge of regret, and could not have specified if the feeling was Pike’s or his own.

“You look so good,” Pike said, his voice low and rough. “All laid out for me. Wish we weren’t on grey ‘Fleet issue carpet, but it’ll do.” 

“The setting…ah...the setting makes no difference,” Spock said with some difficulty. 

“Oh, but it does. For instance, if we had a bed, and lots of time…”

" _Kaiidth_ ," Spock said, turning away. The word pricked at him uncomfortably. 

Pike leaned down and pressed a kiss to Spock’s hipbone, then stretched out so that they lay parallel. He hooked a finger beneath Spock’s chin and tipped his face up to kiss him on the mouth. “You okay?” he asked.

“I am well,” Spock said, because on the whole it was true. And he kissed Pike again, because he preferred not to dwell on the parts it was not. Spock insinuated a hand between them, seeking out the fly on Pike’s matching blacks. He palmed Pike experimentally over the fabric, and was gratified to discover a hardness to match his own. 

“Let me,” he said quietly, his voice barely louder than a whisper. Pike did not stop him as Spock undid the zipper with fumbling fingers, reaching in and wrapping his hand around Pike as he lifted his hips and let Spock shove his pants down with his free hand. Spock ran his hand lightly over Pike’s penis. Pike sucked in a breath, and Spock bit his lower lip in consideration. He shifted, scooting down Pike’s body until he found the position he sought. 

“Spock, what are you doing?” 

Spock looked up at him, swallowing. His mouth felt dry. He thought only of his earlier pledge to accept Pike’s offer, of what would happen between them when they finished here. _Kaiidth_ , he thought again, and took Pike into his mouth. 

Pike cried out softly, as if he hadn’t been expecting it. “You don’t need to…” 

Spock ignored him, attempting to emulate Pike’s earlier rhythm. He was thicker than Spock, and he tasted faintly bitter on the tongue. Spock wrapped his hand around the base of the shaft, close to Pike’s body, and proceeded to slide down as far as he could, consciously attempting to counter his gag reflex. 

“Oh my god,” Pike said. “You’re amazing.” 

Spock hummed with satisfaction and drew back. Most likely, Pike was intending to placate him; the likelihood of Spock mastering such a foreign activity with such a short period of practice was slim indeed. But this did not stop the minute flare of pride he felt at the praise. He relished it a moment before subsuming it once more. Pike had avoided the use of teeth entirely, for (Spock thought) obvious reasons. Spock attempted to do the same, but his success was limited. Pike seemed unable to prevent himself from thrusting into Spock’s mouth, and Spock could not prevent the occasional scrape, though oddly Pike did not seem to mind. 

Spock closed his eyes. He could feel Pike’s consciousness pressing against the borders of his own, and if he allowed himself to indulge in minor exploration, surely Pike would not begrudge him. He could feel the echo of Pike’s pleasure, the ghosts of warmth and wetness traveling the length of Spock’s own penis. He was still mostly erect, though the shift in position and lack of constant stimulation had caused him to soften slightly. The hand wrapped around Pike was slick with spit, and Spock switched hands to reach down and touch himself in conjunction with the shadow sensations he felt. 

Spock’s eidetic memory was a curious thing, and he knew that if he so chose he could catalogue every moment of this act, could measure pressure to the last pascal and correlate it to the pitch of the sounds Pike made above him. But these circumstances were unique, an outlier, and Spock did not foresee a need to employ such data in the future. So he did not trouble himself with numbers. Instead, he memorized the thrum of Pike’s pulse under his tongue, the smell of clean sweat and skin where his nose met the skin of Pike’s inguinal region, the ache of his jaw and the warmth of the reflex tears that eked their way out of his lacrimal ducts and wove hot paths along his face. He could sense that Pike was close to orgasm; his respiratory rate had increased dramatically, and his fingers tightened in Spock’s hair with bursts of sharp, clean pain. Spock worked himself accordingly, his hand spasming and falling away when Pike gave an abbreviated shout and pleasure burst across Spock’s tongue to light his limbic system like a torch. 

Spock lost himself in it, vaguely aware that he was spurting all over himself without so much as a touch. He was dimly cognizant of sliding Pike’s softening erection out of his mouth and collapsing in a pile on top of him, his head resting somewhere in the middle of Pike’s solar plexus. He had swallowed Pike’s ejaculate, he must have. He could still taste it, faintly astringent like chlorine. Pike carded his fingers through Spock’s hair again, but he was careful this time, as if smoothing back into place what he had so recently disheveled. 

Spock should have been embarrassed at the way he clung to Pike, limp and boneless, but he could not bring himself to care. Eventually, however, he righted himself, pulling up his blacks and zipping the fly. He rubbed at his eyes with the heel of his hand, half convinced that when he looked up again the scene would have dissolved entirely. He would be back in his little room, hunched over his desk having fallen asleep in the middle of a line of code. 

When he lowered his hand, however, Pike remained. He had restored himself to a state of complete dress and now leaned back on his elbows in a position that hardly looked comfortable. He watched Spock, and the warmth and openness on his face was jarring given the uncertainty that had started to creep back in as Spock’s dopamine haze ebbed. He lived his life cultivating detachment and coolness as befit a Vulcan, yet Pike from the start had seen the truth of him, the messy heat that simmered far too close to the surface. He was unsure how to assimilate this experience. 

“Does your offer still stand?” Spock asked. 

“Well,” Pike said, shifting closer to Spock and taking hold of his wrist. “Technically, it’s an assignment. Those are your orders.” 

“And you would order me to report to your bridge?” 

Pike was silent a moment, as if he were actually considering it. “No,” he said finally. “No, I wouldn’t.” 

Spock nodded. “Vulcans do not assign value based on personal preference,” he said. “Thus, no one assignment could be said to be better than another, as a Vulcan would strive to perform admirably within any given set of parameters. However…” He paused, looking up at the ceiling. “I find, in spite of myself, that I cannot deny the appeal of an exploratory mission.” 

Spock’s gaze remained fixed overhead, but he could feel Pike’s grin nonetheless. He also felt it die. Pike sighed. “But you know--”

“I know,” Spock said, turning back to him. “This ends.” 

“I can’t be up there with you and...and do this,” Pike said. “I know myself, Spock. It’s one of the few perks of being ancient. You know me here, dirtside, and it’s-- it’s different up there. I could order you to your death on any given day, and if I’m going to have a hope of running that ship the way I want to run it, the way I’m expected to run it…I can’t feel like this about you.” 

A tightness clutched at Spock’s throat. A respiratory spasm, perhaps; the carpet here beside the desk was thick with dust. “Logical,” he said. “Flawlessly so. Sir.” 

Pike reached for him, running his index finger lightly over the line of Spock’s jaw. Spock caught Pike’s hand, held it, and tugged, pulling him in for a kiss. It was softer, almost chaste, and when they parted Pike looked at Spock for a long moment before inclining his head as if in thanks. He squared his shoulders, got fluidly to his feet and held out a hand to Spock, who reached for it and allowed himself to be pulled upright. 

Just once more, at the end of things.

2258

“Stop lurking and come in,” Pike said without turning around.

“Vulcans do not lurk,” Spock said automatically, stepping into Pike’s office. 

“Bullshit.” Pike spun around in his chair, drumming his fingers on the desk.“So, what can I do for you, Commander?” 

Spock straightened minutely. “Your cadet has beaten the _Kobayashi Maru_ ,” he said.

Pike raised an eyebrow at Spock. The implied mimicry, the familiarity of it, caused Spock a momentary prick of annoyance under the circumstances. For although Pike was not precisely to blame for Spock’s current problem, the fact remained that he bore a significant percentage of the responsibility for its root cause. 

“ _My_ cadet?” Pike’s eyes twinkled.

“Would you like to know how he accomplished it?” Spock asked. He chose to ignore Pike’s question, which was not a question at all, but an illogical rhetorical device. Because Pike knew exactly who Spock was referring to.

“I have a feeling you’re going to tell me either way,” Pike said, leaning back in his chair. 

“He procured a set of access codes from an operations-track cadet via highly duplicitous means, potentially violating section 149Z of the interspecies cultural competency policy, and--”

“Wait, isn’t that the thing about Orion pheromones? Are you talking about Cadet Gaila? The Cadet Gaila who happens to room with that xenoling hotshot, what’s-her-name--”

“Uhura,” Spock supplied. He could feel the tips of his ears warming in a most unfortunate manner. He vowed to forge ahead regardless. “Cadet Uhura. However, that is hardly relevant to the matter at hand, which--”

Pike was staring at Spock with eyes narrowed, a sly grin widening on his face. “Are you _blushing_?” 

“Blushing implies an influx of the color red, an impossibility given my copper-based blood. Also irrelevant, sir." 

Pike snorted. 

“What _is_ relevant,” Spock continued, “is the fact that Cadet Kirk used these access codes to gain entry to the back end of the test’s infrastructure and alter the parameters of the simulation to allow for rescue of the _Kobayashi Maru_.” 

To Spock’s chagrin, Pike appeared somewhat impressed. If Spock’s initial reaction had been similar, that was neither here nor there. Pike shrugged. “So Kirk cheated,” he said. “So fail him, see if he has the wherewithal to try for round four.” 

“The test is compromised, and will require significant recoding before further attempts may be made. Moreover, Captain, I find Kirk’s display of flippancy highly disturbing in a command track cadet. I have...I have requested a disciplinary hearing be convened to discuss the advisability of Cadet Kirk’s continued attendance at Starfleet Academy.” 

“You filed charges?” 

Spock nodded. “Affirmative.” 

Pike sighed, running a hand over his face. He was silent for some time, staring at the PADD that lay before him on the desk. “Kirk’s an idiot,” he said finally. “And he’s a brilliant idiot, which is the worst kind. But c’mon, Spock, you have to hand it to him--”

“He has completely failed to discern the purpose of the test,” Spock said, his tone veering far too close to exclamatory for his liking. “He stated that he does not believe in so-called no win scenarios, which is ludicrous at best and extremely dangerous at worst. I cannot, in good conscience, allow that attitude to flourish unchecked.” 

“I don’t know, maybe there’s something a little defeatist about declaring a situation hopeless from the outset,” Pike said. 

“The appropriate time to raise such speculation would have been the test’s developmental phase, which you were intimately involved in.” Spock had programmed the majority of the test in his free time over the course of the _Jemison_ 's mission, with Pike and Number One offering their counsel at various junctures. 

“Just playing devil’s advocate for a second. Anyway, _kaiidth_ , as you would say. The committee will find what they find. If Jim’s meant to stay on here, it’ll work itself out.” 

“This is hardly a matter of destiny,” Spock said. Pike gave him a look that Spock assumed he was meant to interpret as significant, though for what purpose he could not discern. 

“Anyway,” Pike said. “Change of subject. You get a look at her yet?” 

“I did,” Spock said, his lips quirking into a ghost of a smile at the memory.

Pike spoke of the _Enterprise_ , the nascent flagship of the fleet. She hung in spacedock somewhere above them, white and luminescent as if carved from a polished moon. 48 hours prior, Spock had made the trip up via shuttlecraft on a premise so flimsy he could barely recall what it had been. Sensor calibration, perhaps, something that a junior tech could manage. But though he had seen the plans and projections, the engineering models, Spock had harbored an illicit-seeming desire to see her for himself. 

“Sure is pretty, isn’t she?” 

“An understatement.” 

“Yet you still haven’t said yes.” 

“Captain, while I am incredibly gratified at your request that I serve as your first officer, I have not yet ascertained whether a prolonged deep space mission--”

“Come on, you can date your TA any time.” 

“I’m sure I have no idea what you are referring to, sir. In the event that I did, however, I would be compelled to point out that Cadet Uhura is not, and never has been, my teaching assistant.” 

Pike grinned. “Touché. But seriously, this mission? The _Enterprise_? This is what ‘Fleet’s all about. I haven’t forgotten what you told me that night, Spock, logic be damned. And I’ve served with you now, so I know. You’re in your element up there.” 

Spock swallowed. “Noted,” he said. “Your offer merits serious consideration, and I assure you I will give it its due."

“That’s all I ask.” Pike looked at his chrono. “So, I’ve got some time,” he said. “You want to go take another look?” 

Spock favored him with a raised eyebrow. Among the unexpected benefits of the better part of a decade amongst humans was, he thought, an emerging sense of comedic timing. Though he would be hard pressed indeed to admit to it, he considered it diplomatically advantageous and thus logical to cultivate.

"Captain Pike," he said, "are you attempting to seduce me?” 

At this, Pike threw his head back and laughed outright, and Spock could not stop the bloom of warmth in his chest at the sound. Pike recovered himself and stood, holding out an arm as if to steer Spock, either out into the hallway or away into the black altogether. “Me, Commander Spock?" he said. "Never."


End file.
